


Stories Written On Our Skin

by DinosaurTheology



Series: Brief, Brilliant Miracles [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Body Image, F/M, Meaningful Conversation, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Worth Issues, Sera is a legendary creeper, all the feels, companionable silence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-14
Updated: 2015-03-14
Packaged: 2018-03-17 18:34:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3539741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DinosaurTheology/pseuds/DinosaurTheology
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"People like you face a violent, frightening world and do not become violent in return. You reason, negotiate and extend the civilization that we pretend to be so proud of."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stories Written On Our Skin

Dragon Age is not mine... but oh the things I would do with it, if I could!!!!

Cassandra sank into the hot springs beneath Skyhold, letting almost scalding water boil the aches from her arms, legs and back. Steam, along with a preparation of crushed elfroot under her nose, cleared away the late winter nasal and sinus problems which had plagued the warrior for much of her life, ever since she was a little girl in Cumberland. The dull drone in her knees and left shoulder were injuries of much more recent vintage--one did not act as Right Hand of the Divine or Sword of the Inquisitor without taking a lump or two. The right leg, which had been shattered during a fight with one of the Venatori's pet giants in the Western Approach's Still Ruins, still clawed at her in a particularly insistent fashion, on cool, wet mornings. She had only recently given up hobbling around Skyhold on a cane, like the stereotype of a decrepit hag.

Josephine sighed beside her, head lolling on the pool's edge. It was easy to slip into reverie, forget that Josie was even here. Companionable silence was a possibility, something of a rare commodity in their little community. Merrill, Hawke's Dalish wife, chattered without surcease, Vivienne treated everyone like her personal bath slaves and Sera... well, the less said about that towel stealing, creeping little daughter of a deepstalker the better, Cassandra thought. She also knew that sigh, having been friends with its progenitor for some time now. Companionable Silence, good friend it might have been under the circumstances, was about to be superceded by its close cousin, Meaningful Conversation. "So I am wondering... do you ever... er... think about your body?"

It was an unusual question to Cassandra. She ruminated a moment. "No."

"Not ever?"

"My body keeps my intestines from wandering off, Josie. I can't ask it to do much more, and it doesn't ask any other favors of me."

Josie managed to giggle and turn green at the same time, one of the Ambassador's many skills. "That's good of it." She examined a strand of long, dark hair, so black that it almost glimmered purple in the candlelight. "You're so well-muscled though, and have so many impressive scars."

Cassandra snorted. "I'm not all that scarred, Josie."

The green darkened to a blush. "I didn't mean it that way. I mean that you have experience, the stories of battles written on your body."

"Experience mostly just hurts on rainy days." 

She went on, not even deigning to pause. "There is the long, winding dagger mark on your ribs, from where you saved Divine Beatrix's life from that bandit, and the dark, puckered mark on your shoulder, where the alpha quillback struck you with one of his spines..."

"I get it, I get it." Cassandra's face became a stormcloud. "I am a twisted horror, unfit to walk in the light of day. Are you satisfied?"

"No! I mean, no, you're no a twisted horror..." Josie turned, revealing that her back was an expanse of smooth, unbroken brown, and pounded her small fists on the pool's edge. "And I am not satisfied either. It's just..." She sighed and laid her head down. "And I call myself an ambassador!"

Cassandra rolled her eyes. "We know each other too well to be diplomatic. Now spit it out, whatever is bothering you. You cannot possibly make this too much worse."

"It is Warden Blackwall."

"You think that he is a twisted horror?" She raised her eyebrows. "That is a surprise, indeed."

"Oh, he is anything but." She rolled again, revealing a flat, soft stomach and small, well-formed breasts tipped by dark nipples. "He and the Iron Bull meet three times a week, in the early mornings before the rest of you arrive to train, so that they can lift things together. Logs, anvils, stones, buckets that have been filled with cement, that kind of thing. They do it stripped to the waist and work up a most marvelous sweat."

Cassandra chuckled. "What an interesting amusement to pursue."

"Ah, no, no! It is why they are so large and strong. Varric told me all about it, when I asked him, and that a lot of Mining and Smith caste dwarves in Orzammar organize competitions to see which one among them can lift the largest stone, or who can hoist an anvil the most times, or throw one the farthest."

"I rather meant your creeping around the edges of our training grounds to watch them."

Josie spun again, throwing water, to hide crimson cheeks in the silken nightfall of her damp curls. "It is important for me to study the readiness of our troops so that I can advise our allies on their preparedness and make suggestions for how our forces can best be arrayed--"

Leliana appeared in the shadowy bath. She had, Cassandra reflected, a way of being at the most inconvenient places whenever she wanted. The Divine's Left hand slipped out of her plush, azure robe and, utterly unselfconscious of her porcelain nudity, slid into the bath with her two long-time companions. "Spare us, Josie; we are both worldly enough to know why you enjoy Bull, Blackwall and their bunched, rippling muscles." She turned on them eyes so pale that they could have been petals of Andraste's Grace. "Or, at least, I know I am."

"Mischa and I have shared a bed for six months, Leliana. I am well aware of why Josie might find our fellow members of the Inquisition's Inner Circle fascinating."

"Six?" Leliana's lips curled into smile. It was the kind commonly associated with purring cats near empty birdcages. "I had wondered."

"And you said that only to find out." Cassandra made a disgusted noise. "You could have asked."

"Would you have told me?"

"No."

"Then it was incumbent on me, as the Inquisition's spymaster, to trick you into revealing this highly sensitive information."

"Enough." Cassandra dismissed the whole line of discussion with a gesture. "You could make a statue of Maferath's head spin!"

Leliana's smile dazzled. It always did. "That is the nature of my line of work, Cassandra."

Josie sighed. "And my line of work has left me soft and pathetic."

"You do your work with your tongue and your wits, Josie." Leliana moved through the water so smoothly that she left nary a ripple and laid a hand on Josephine's shoulder. Its creamy paleness stood in stark contrast to the walnut brown. "If you ended up scarred and battered like our stalwart fighters then you would have proven to be a very insufficient ambassador indeed."

"But you are a bard, more skilled with words than any diplomat, and still carry the marks of an interesting life, even if they are thin and faint."

Leliana's face darkened for an instant before she regained composure. "A life that observers call interesting could often be referred to as terrifying and agonizing by turns."

Cassandra pondered a moment, wondering how her dear friend Companionable Silence had wandered so far into the fields of Talking About Our Hopes and Fears. "Is it not possible, Josephine, that your scars are inside your soul and mind, since your battles have most frequently taken place there?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that Mischa has most often done battle in the Fade--at least before the Conclave. His body is unmarked, relatively pale and even soft in places... but his dreams." She shook her head. "I have to hold him tight, often, when he thrashes in the night. It was the same with my first love, long ago, and Hawke tells me that it is the same with Merill." She shook her head. "Solas is the only mage I have ever known that slept soundly, and none of them are scarred as warriors are scarred." She vacated the bath, dried herself and pulled on her customary leather breeches and a soft, loose shirt that hung fetchingly on her muscular frame. "Have I given you something to think about?"

Josephine did not say anything, but her drawn, worried face spoke volumes.

***

The next morning found her at the practice field in the dewy half light between false and true dawn. She clutched her slate and quill to her chest, watching the usual tableau unfold itself before her. Bull and Blackwall were engaged in their early morning ritual. Each man hoisted a log, weighing nearly three hundred-weight, from the ground to hold it aloft over his head, repeating the feat more than once. After this, Blackwall tossed an anvil--Maker, it must have been four stone, itself--high into the air, caught the falling projectile in his strong, gentle hands (oh, they could be so soft, in spite of the calluses covering them, she knew that from giving the man dancing lessons) and hurled it aloft again. Bull, conversely, took an anvil in each hand and lifted them over and again, using only the massive sinews in his upper arms, causing the muscles therein to strain and ripple to incredible effect. Josie found herself worked into a sweat from only watching the two burly men work and had to admit, definitely, that it was not just out of sympathy for their incredible effort. 

And they would, only a few moments after taking their leave of this specialized training area, re-emerge in their armor, bearing weapons and practice with the rest of the Inquisition's warriors and soldiers. They were astonishing, amazing... and walking right towards her. Both were, as far as she knew, unaware of her little addendum to their time spent together. Josie peeked around for a place to hide and, unable to find one, drew herself up to what she simply knew as an unacceptably intimidating height for much of anything and worked to salvage the dignity with which an ambassador ought to always try to comport herself. Ogling handsome, half-dressed men... she sighed. That was the kind of mischief that someone like Sera might get up to.. well, gorgeous Tamassrin in Sera's case, she amended. It was certainly not an appropriate activity for the heir to one of Antiva City's most aristocratic trading families!

Ah, alas... there wasn't anything to do for it now. The Iron Bull had already seen her, offered the grin that made his brutish, heavy-featured face almost painfully handsome and called a greeting. He reached out to ruffle her hair and, when she ducked, squawked and swatted at his massive hand with her slate uttered one of the deep, rolling laughs that brightened almost anyone's day. "Hey, Josie... how's it hanging? What's got you out on a walk this early?"

"I... er..." It was best to stick with the story that she had told Cassandra and Leliana. Who knew when they might all compare notes? Cassandra would be here to train in only a short while, after all, and Bull was one of her favorite partners for full speed, full contact swordplay. "I am on my rounds to observe the fitness and readiness of the Inquisition's forces."

"Which is, of course, why you are watching two guys toss around pieces of heavy wood, stone and metal instead of showing up to the weapons training session with everyone."

"You know very well that I watch the weapons practice session, too!"

"Yeah, that's kind of my point." He chuckled. "You're a very dedicated observer of our physical progress, Ambassador."

She blushed. "I take notes, you know. To compare with... things." It had seemed much less lame before it came struggling thinly out of her mouth. 

"Bah, I don't mind." He flexed. "It's not like all of this is just for improving how many times I can swing a sword, or how fast."

"It's not?"

"I'm a mercenary, hon. Some of the nastiest, vilest, most evil bastards I ever fought were skinny little guys with pot-bellies. Just look at Skinner; I'm half convinced she's a rage abomination. They didn't get hired, though, cause they didn't look like they could kick ass. I look like I can kick entire giant, swaying forests of ass--"

"What? That does not even make sense!"

"Yeah, well, Trade Tongue isn't my first language."

"It isn't mine, either, but I haven't ever come up with something that inane."

He shrugged. "It's a lot closer to Antivan than Qunlat, though... and besides, you're good at words, just like I'm good at having big muscles." He patted her shoulder. "That's why I get hired as a mercenary and you get hired as a diplomat. I beat them down with my axe, you use your wits to make them wish I had just chopped their heads off." 

"You have a point... I think."

"Darling..." He pointed over his head. "I've got two. Anyway..." He gestured towards the tavern. "I'm going to go wash up, drink my breakfast and let you talk to the man you came to see."

"What?"

"Much as I like to think otherwise, you didn't get up this early to see the Iron Bull without his shirt on--besides you can see that whenever you want." He winked. "Just be gentle. Blackie's not as erudite and wordly as a couple of clever devils like us." He sauntered off before she could sputter a reply, whistling Maryden's strange song about Sera.

The man in question arrived a few seconds later. He had been carefully putting up their training equipment, something Bull forgot to do on occasion, especially if he thought that it might be fun to squeeze in an extra session during downtime in the afternoon. "Good morning, Ambassador." He seemed to consider covering himself, but apparently decided that the thick, coarse patch of black hair on his chest and stomach did the job well enough. Those thrilling scars, tanalizing with the stories they might tell, wound through it, pale against tan, leathery skin. "Hope we didn't make too much noise, tossing anvils around like that, and wake you up."

"No, no... I don't mind the noise. I like to go on walks in the morning, anway." She smiled, just like she had at Halamshiral, and the sudden weakness in his legs had little to do with muscular fatigue. "It was one of the only ways I could clear my head after studying all night in Rialto, or working as a bard, in Val Royeaux."

He nodded. "A woman of many accomplishments, and I'll wager many a fascinating tale."

The staggering smile melted into a scowl. "It's not kind to mock me, Warden."

"Mock you? What are you talking about, Josephine?"

"You're a Grey Warden, Blackwall, the Shield of the Inquisitor... you've got the stories of a hundred battles written on your skin. Your hands aren't complete without a sword in them and..." She lifted the corner of her lips. "You dance better in a gigantic suit of Battlemaster's armor than any man has the right too."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"I'm small, and soft... my skin's as smooth as it was when I was born, except for a few scrapes on my knees I got from running around with Yvette when we were little girls. The only time I ever fought wasn't really fighting, it was just squabbling, and I only survived by accident. And..." Her huge, dark eyes shimmered. "I cry, whenever I think about the waste of it... like I'll do now, if I'm not careful." She sighed and seemed to shrink within the huge frills and ruffles of her customary gold and purple dress. "You must think I'm boring, and even rather pathetic."

"To the contrary." He took her hand in his. It was, indeed, small and soft, just as he remembered it. "I find your dedication to peace, finding solutions that do not involve bloodshed, to be admirable. In a world as terrible and dangerous as this one..." He shuddered. "It is a miracle that a woman like you could ever come to be."

"And we are esteemed very little. Those who stand against evil, like you, Cassandra and the Inquisitor, Iron Bull and Varric, Vivienne... even Sera! Those are the ones who are covered in glory and will live forever in tales. The thinkers and talkers, people like me... we'll be forgotten."

"Men like me are a last resort, Josie. People remember us because we arrive at the worst possible time, when they have no other options, to ply our violent trade. We seem like heroes because it is a choice between accepting what we do and dying horribly, to the Darkspawn, Venatori or Red Templars... even common bandits." He ran his fingertips through the cloud of shining midnight on her head. They were still chalked, so that the implements he used with the Iron Bull did not slip out of them, and left streaks of white. "When the danger is over... soldiers and Grey Wardens are almost never welcome in peace time, Ambassador Montilyet. And Sera, dear friend of mine though she may have become, is infrequently welcome anywhere."

Josephine giggled. "It doesn't seem to bother her. Rather admirable, in a way. Infuriating, in another, when she just wanders into your bedroom to 'borrow' something, like a blanket you had over you on a cold night, and never return it." She leaned into his hand's comfortable pressure, found it reassuring. "You do what no one else can, or is willing to. A Grey Warden like you... I can't believe the courage of it. You will die in battle even when no one else must. There is nothing I can do to compare, and the lack of marks I bear attests to that weakness."

"Weakness." He sighed. "People like you face a violent, frightening world and do not become violent in return. You reason, negotiate and extend the civilization that we pretend to be so proud of. That's written on your face, in the bags that grow from time to time under your eyes from nights on end spent awake, reading and writing by candlelight." He laid a fingertip softly below one eye, leaving another white mark. "And on your fingers... they are as callused from wielding a quill as surely as my palms bear the grooves of a sword hilt." He rubbed his thumb across the rough spots near the last knuckle of her index finger. It was a queer sensation and raised the small hairs on the back of her neck.

She stepped forward and gazed up into his deep set eyes, almost sought the lips hidden within that black, tangled bush on his face. She drew herself up short, somehow, and the breath caught under her ribs, escaped in little gasps. She whispered, almost breathing her breath into his. "You will always be welcome wherever I am, Warden, in peace or war." Neither could find anything else to say, nor muster the strength to move forward or backwards. It was an endless, perfect moment of agony and pleasure, and even Skyhold's cold sun seemed to hang still in the sky to watch.

**Author's Note:**

> This is best read after my previous story, "Antivan Peaches Do Not Bruise," in the way that dessert ought to follow the main course, or an entree ought to follow an appetizer... er, I could be hungry right now. Anyway, it stands by and large alone but references the previous story.


End file.
